Eternity Alone
by sheneedsanewname
Summary: Love... or an infatuation? Legolas believes it to be love and becomes frighteningly single minded over his love, Mordurien. [Chapter Four]
1. Prologue

Eternity Alone

Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien, his cat, his dog, his writings and certainly not his son.  
 Archives: Please, just ask.

Warnings: Dark, miserable…

Rating: PG13

Reviews: Constructive criticism? PLEASE.

A/N: Legolas thinks on eternity, and the life he chose… alone. His nature has been corrupted, his life mutilated beyond recognition… Will be expanded if people like… so review! Please!

Sometimes I consider myself a failure. When my father passes by and sighs as if he's disappointed that I've always been alone and always will be, when the silver moon smirks down on me when I wander alone in the gardens of Mirkwood and hear the songs of the lovers in the wood. When my brothers tell of their loves, and their hopes for the future, tell of the children they will have, the beauty of their wives to be, I sometimes regret I chose this path, loving life more than a companion, more than grief.

My mother's shadow is eternally behind my back, and my father's sorrow rankles within me still. I chose my path though and even if it be laced with thorns, I'll walk it blindfold and ignore the pain.

Gimli still comes to see me, and in his friendship I take some joy, though I yearn for the companionship of a wife. The wife I'll never have, the wife I dream about, but I don't really want, like a child who takes another slice of cake even though it knows it will be sick, and the sweetness will rush away to be placed by bitterness.

 I wonder if Aragorn will ever weary of Arwen, but I doubt it. They are an exceptional case, lovers bound in the hands of the stars and lips that sing of the ocean waves in tremulous harmony; sing not as well as they do together.

Most elven couples are happy together, but I know, and I know this well that I could never keep a wife for eternity, never love her that long. I am faithless, cold, and hard to those I cease to take an interest in, as they I loved knew well. I'm a murderer and yet no one guesses this because I am an elf, a prince and feign kindness when all I feel is hate.

I am too sour to see Aragorn much, to see how happy he is. That is how selfish I am, that's how warped I have become. I lost someone I loved and I lost her well. I never go to greet her, and she often sings of me in the wind and the rain and her voice is out of tune and grates on my ears.

I am out of loving, and am a Man in spirit, though I am an Elf in face. Someone killed that love in my breast long before time had a meaning and a purpose.

She was so beautiful, but her beauty faded with hate, and I hated her after that battle, the Battle of the Five Armies. She hated me and I hated her… but it was at the same time some kind of love-hate and later I hid the knife, the heavy one she had given me as a present the very same morning in my room…

I wore it at the Council of Elrond, that long white knife and once Boromir remarked on it, and I said it had slain many… and had many names.

It started off as Iarlóm, the knife given in love.


	2. Iarlóm

Eternity Alone

Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien, his cat, his dog, his writings and certainly not his son.  
 Archives: Please, just ask.

Warnings: Dark, miserable… 

Rating: PG13

Reviews: Constructive criticism? PLEASE.

A/N: Legolas thinks on eternity, and the life he chose… alone. His nature has been corrupted, his life mutilated beyond recognition… Will be expanded if people like… so review! Please!

I've decided this is an AU, fitting with canon, but using some OOC events to make up the fabric of the story. The end will be very OOC, and involve some AU themes. Please, don't take this story seriously and just enjoy it.

Iarlóm. I hold it up now, and watch as the mottled silver sends darts of light across the room. She gave it to me, my love, on the morning it was used for the first time, several years before, one summer, one long passionate summer.

Her name was… I have almost forgotten it, but how can I, when the trees whisper her name, and the brook babbles it to passing strangers? When I hear it in the voices of my father and my brothers and in my friends' strangely stilted whispers? I whisper it over and over again. Mordurien, the one with hair like mahogany and eyes so blue they reflected the sea in them, and that the sky blushed and tried to make it's own paltry colours more alike to her iris. Mordurien, Mordurien… her name haunts my ears, my thoughts, my mind. When people whisper her name as I pass by, I'm once more at the Battle of the Five Armies, fighting with Arthon, poor Arthon.

Yet, this story never started at the Battle, a few weeks before, when I saw Mordurien for the first time.

She was beautiful. I don't deny this fact, she was beautiful. To me she was my Luthien, I'd have died for her and I thought she would have done so for me. I was in love, almost at first sight, but then again at first sight I didn't notice her.

Arthon did.

It was a summer's day, one of those endlessly dull days that wear people down, drive them mad. I was with Arthon in a quiet, underground room, where the gentle rush of the water flowed underneath, telling each other ghost stories. Arthon told one that had been going around for some time in the palace, one about a dwarf with the face and figure of a man, running through the corridors, rather fat. His feet made no noise, and yet you could hear him chiding himself as he ran along, before vanishing into the mist.

"Some people say it's a man charmed by Gandalf's power. Some people. I believe that is his natural state though, for he does not seem distressed at his height or body, but more at some peril that is about to befall him."

"I see no reason for him to be wandering around Mirkwood's palaces now, and yet he came with the dwarves, did he not?"

"Some murdered soul, I wager," Arthon said, and we dropped the matter, and continued telling stories.

"Did you ever hear of the maiden that haunts this place?" I asked, "I have seen her, and in truth she is fair, horribly murdered one day when she was walking in the forest alone. The Orcs left her tortured body for the nearest to find, and the horrible thing was that from her body appeared a ragged imp, with the Orkish features but with the elvish personality. A terrible thing, yet far back when Oropher was a boy, and he knew the maiden well. Avaraduialiel, her name was, one of the most lovely creatures ever to set foot upon this earth."

"What happened to the Orc spawn?" Arthon wondered.

"He was spurned by all that saw him, and in true misery took his own life. Avaraduialiel's lover would not take him, and hated him."

"Poor soul."

"We are all that stand in the way of Fate."

The room suddenly seemed to be very cold and Arthon shivered, "Let's return into the sunlight, Legolas. "The ghosts cloud the sphere of my consciousness and freeze my spine."

I stood up and walked through numerous silent, eerie corridors, for all elves were out in the sun, Arthon watching the shadows in a strange terror. Suddenly, he grasped my arm with a sharp intake of breath, "Legolas! Legolas!"

"What is it?" I asked, looking at the much younger elf, who had only recently left childhood, but not yet his foolish ideals "What is it, Arthon? Speak!"

"I fancied I saw in the shadows the miserable spirit of Avaraduialiel… How frightened she appears! Quick, let's follow."

He grasped my arm and pulled me through the corridors, further into the cellars below Mirkwood's home, deeper and deeper down into the dark, where I could not see, and worried Arthon had lost his wit.

"Come!" my friend hissed at me, pulling me faster into the maze beyond the earth, "Come! I hear her voice, she sings a song…"

We came into a wide chamber, deep below the earth, where the walls curved up to form a dome, and water trickled from somewhere deep down. A spiral staircase, cut of wood, circled up to a hole in the wall, and this was where Arthon's ghost had gone.

Arthon did not stop, though he panted out, "'tis marvelous, is it not, Legolas? But not as fair as she…"

He began to ascend the stairs, and I, fearful of him doing some mishap, could only follow.

"Arthon, this is lunacy! This is the oldest cellar in Mirkwood, once used for storing wine… then the river dried up here and we came no more! This is not a fairy chamber, where ghosts of fair maidens sing their laments! Turn back and stop with this stupidity!"

My friend laughed and waved me on, as he stepped through the ceiling into glorious sunshine, and I soon after, and for a while, my protests were silenced.

We were in a clearing, where the deep blue of the sky glimmering through the silver birches reflected off the crystal of the water and sent many, dancing fragments of light-glass around the silent place.

But, that was not the most beautiful thing about it. I heard Arthon give a sigh like a wounded deer and his clear voice rang out, "Avaraduialiel! Avaraduialiel!"

And somehow, I heard a voice singing in the clearing, but no elf or men could ever sing like that. It was the song of a Valar, a fair song that I had heard too often before not to recognize, yet it was only a verse… and then all was silent.

_Again she fled, but swift he came._

_Tinuviel__! Tinuviel!_

_He called her by her elvish name;_

_And there she halted listening._

_One moment stood she and a spell_

_His voice laid on her: Beren came,_

_And doom fell on Tinuviel_

_That in his arms lay glistening._

I soon saw why Arthon had cried out, for lying sleeping at the banks of the pool was a maiden, and she was so fair that I believed, like the foolish do, in love at second sight, and longed for her to be my wife.

She wore a gown of star spun cloth, a white knife was in her belt and white slippers upon her feet. Her throat was long and white and perfect, her face as solemn as an old woman's, but brimming with a curious joy.

And, yet a second later, Arthon had cried out and woken her.

"Idiot!" I hissed at him, "Why did you have to wake her?"

Arthon sighed, "I had not the power to keep my tongue still, Legolas. Is she not beautiful? I would long to marry her, and this from someone who though I would never marry…"

"You are too young to know what love is, Arthon, and foolish enough to imagine you do."

"And I suppose you do not love her, Legolas," Arthon snapped.

"When I love, my love is the love of mature years, yours is a young infatuation. Heed it not, Arthon."

Arthon sulked, but I was no longer prepared to listen to my friend's complaints and walked over to her, and took her hand.

"Lady Avaraduialiel!" I whispered in her ear, and she stirred, her lips moving and eyes widening as she saw who it was.

"Prince Legolas Greenleaf!" she cried, her cheeks blushing crimson. "My lord!"

Arthon turned and left, as silently as he had come, knowing himself to have lost, knowing that whatever I desired, the prince, I would get and he would sacrifice.

"My lady," I said, not caring a bit for Arthon, he was still a child, and as such, would have many loves, "My lady, I worried for your safety, sleeping in such a quiet glade, out of sight and supervision."

"I was more exhausted than I thought," she whispered. I thought her shallow and brittle ways truly charming, what a fool I was, "But tell me, good lord, why did you give me the name of Avaraduialiel?"

"It seemed to me," I said, taking her hand and helping her to her dainty feet, "I saw the ghost of the fairest maiden Mirkwood had ever seen, alive and sleeping in the glade, and in my surprise and sudden love for her beauty, I did call out her name. But, please, maiden, tell me yours."

She looked up at me with those ethereal blue eyes, "Mordurien," she whispered, "Mordurien."

"Mordurien." I said, "Mordurien," repeating her own childish voice. "Fairest maiden since Avaraduialiel."

She laughed. Ai Eru! Her laugh! It sent gold sparkling into the air, eyes attracted, blissful prospects, holding herself away from me enticingly.

"My lord!" she cried, giggling, in her empty way, but I saw it as a shy, virtuous giggle.

"Nay, Legolas!" I said, pressing the name upon her.

"Legolas, then!" she said, "I am not fair, nor do I pretend to be Avarduialiel, desist in the name."

"But you are, maiden."

"Mordurien," she corrected.

"In my heart you are forever Avarduialiel."

"Legolas! My lord!" she cried, kneeling at my feet, "I beg you, do not shower me with fond names.

I was infatuated. Eagerly, I pressed a necklace into my palm, one belonging to my grandmother, and most delicate and fine. I looked into her eyes, shocked by the unexpected present and kissed her gently upon the cheek.

"Wear it, as a sign of my favour, Mordurien,"

She looked at it incredulously, "I shall do so, lord."

"Legolas. Call me Legolas. I have said so before."

She giggled, "But what am I to give you, Legolas?" and she felt at her belt, "I have only my dagger, my Iarlóm. It is such a humble present, Legolas, but perhaps you would consent to have it?"

My love handed the little white knife to me, and I took it gratefully. She was a fool to give a knife to a murderer, but as yet, I had not been convicted, and I had not committed the crime…

"I shall wear it always." I told her, and I have kept to that promise. I held it out, "Arathôn, I rename it, for Iarlóm is the name given by a maiden."

Arathôn, named by a prince.


	3. Arathôn

Eternity Alone

Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien, his cat, his dog, his writings and certainly not his son.  
 Archives: Please, just ask.

Warnings: Dark, miserable… 

Rating: PG13

Reviews: Constructive criticism? PLEASE.

A/N: Apologies for the shortness of the chapter, I think that's the only thing I can say. I'm uploading my website and it's all HTML, so once I've got it up tomorrow, I'll have time to work in a more detailed way upon this story. Take a look at it from the 19th, and tell me what you think… 

I was surprised at my father's astuteness, for the very next day, he pulled me aside in a corridor, and asked the meaning of my cheerful mood.

"I am in a good mood this morning," I laughed, "am I usually in such a bad one then?"

He looked at me in a way he had never done before, the resigned look of a father that knows his child to be past toys. "You're in love. You had not that happy look, and not that knife which is Dimloth, a childish toy and no warrior's weapon." He didn't ask this, he just stated it, knowing in his heart that his boy was an adult, knowing that one day he'd be at his son's wedding.

"I am, and the knife is what she gave me, Arathôn," his son, Legolas, me, replied, shaking my father's realization. "Her name is Avarduialiel, to me, but in other's coarser eyes, she is Mordurien, and that name gives her little honour when she can have the name of the fairest maiden ever seen in Mirkwood."

Thranduil sighed, "Legolas, I have heard of Mordurien, and good words did not go with her name. She has caused many to die of a broken heart for loving her and is known to be cruel in these games of love."

"Those stories are but rumour, created by jealousy and hatred!" I replied heatedly. "She is not responsible for them loving her, yet, father, I am certain she loves me!"

Thranduil looked pained, "Be wary, Legolas. She may be more than she seems."

And, I, foolishly, turned away from my father and ignored his advice, and he sighed and paced away, knowing it was foolish to argue, but I know fearing for my life. If I had known anything of the stories told about Mordurien then I would not have loved, not have loved her ever.

Arthon was lying upon a bench in the glade I had visited the previous day, his face long and pale, like a boy's, and indeed he was not far out of childhood. His hair was slightly ruffled and feathery, his lips parted and a slight coral colour. For the first time, looking at my fair friend, I felt a pang of jealousy. He was fairer than me, and Mordurien's affections might turn to him and leave me with my heart broken.

And I know he loves Mordurien, and if I mistake it not, then she likes him.

I unsheathed Arathôn and put it on Arthon's stomach, the cold blade marking his flesh. The way to a man's heart is through his stomach… A gentle pressure and I would show my father this knife was no child's toy and I would be free to marry Mordurien.

Yet, before I committed murder, my friend stirred. "Legolas…"

I whipped the child's toy away, hiding it because even a child's toy can cause murder…

"Dimloth." I laughed, and ran, leaving him bewildered, and alone.


	4. Dimloth

Eternity Alone

Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien, his cat, his dog, his writings and certainly not his son.  
 Archives: Please, just ask.

Warnings: Dark, miserable… 

Rating: PG13

Reviews: Constructive criticism? PLEASE.

A/N: … fish.

This story has caused me much pain in the telling, and if it were ever published, would be a dark story to tell a friend. Now, as I am much older, and supposedly wiser, I often think to myself of the times that are past, of shallow Mordurien and faithful Arthon… and the Battle of the Five Armies, and the knife that bore so many names.

Dimloth was it's name now, and it had been through three in the space of twelve hours, the knife named by a maiden, a prince, and a child's toy, still lethal, still strangely, compulsively beautiful, and even though it had nearly committed a murder, once out of the sight of my friend, I laughed with an odd joy and kissed the blade so fiercely it caught my lips and made them bleed, and I tasted the blood and knew happiness.

I heard her voice, then. It was singing, I do not know what, but her voice trilled in perfect harmony to it, and made the world sparkle for me. I knew instantly who it was.

"Mordurien!" I cried, and her fair voice halted, and a few seconds later, I saw her white gown glimmering among the trees.

"Legolas… my lord?" she called, her voice light and enchanting.

I ran to meet her and to give her a chaste kiss upon one divine ivory cheek. She giggled and blushed so that the white ran crimson and I kissed her again to stop her laughing.

"Mordurien…" I whispered into her ears, "Do you know how much I've missed you?"

"The last time you saw me was yesterday!" she tittered into my ear.

"Still, yesterday was like a thousand years to me, to you…"

"It was but twelve hours since we last met."

"Did you not miss me then?" I knew the pain of heartbreak.

"How could I not?" she breathed; and my heart was whole again. "Tell me, my lord," her silken hands in mine and her delicate lips inches away from my own, "Tell me, Legolas…"

"What?" I asked, "What?"

She giggled shakily and then kissed me full on the lips.

For a few, sunburst, angel-filled seconds, I held the love of my life in my arms, her lips on mine, our hearts beating against each other. She pulled away, looking coy.

"How many women have you seduced that way?" she queried, pretending anger. "I am a virtuous maiden and I shall not succumb to you, Legolas, prince though you may be!" Picking up her skirts, she turned and fled, leaving me dazzled with the remembrance of her lips upon mine and her tinkling laughter ringing in my ears.

I didn't realize Arthon was watching, but when my eyes cleared, I saw him, tall, slim, indescribably elegant, an eyebrow raised sarcastically, leaning against his tree-soul, a silver birch, and, but his whole being was quivering like a thoroughbred and his azure eyes looked agonized, tortured, tormented, sorrowful.

I spoke, as cold as marble, as bitter as steel, "Did you see… Did you see?" I trailed off, unable to find a word for the emotions that tangled within me.

It seemed like an eternity of silence before Arthon spoke.

"I saw," he said, his voice higher than usual and more strained, a tight wire on the point of snapping. "What you and the Lady Mordurien think of each other is entirely your own business."

"Arthon…" I began, my heart softening.

The wire snapped.

"Eru!" he cried out, a wounded deer, "And my friends turn against me! And the closest friend I have, my brother, almost, loves the girl I set my heart on!" He was crying, and like a tap had been turned on inside me, guilt gushed out to sour my soul.

"Arthon…" I began, "Arthon!"

He walked deliberately over to me, and put his hands on my shoulders, "She stood like this," he whispered, "and laughed into your ear, and giggled… and kissed you…." Abruptly, he forced his lips onto mine, his harshness betraying his bitter feelings under the surface. I stood still, shocked and then he ripped his face from mine, "And you put your hands around her! Well, my _friend, do so." He took my limp, weak hands and wrapped them around his body. "And you kissed her cheeks…" He pressed his face to my immobile lips and I tasted the salt that made up his tears. "And that's how you killed me, Legolas!" He turned away, and in an accurate mockery of Mordurien cried out, "I am a virtuous maiden and I shall not succumb to you, Legolas, prince though you may be!"_

He turned and walked out of our friendship and left me there, corpse-like, with the taste of his kiss upon my lips where I had made no effort to wipe it away.

That night, Thranduil called me to his presence. He was in the throne room, but everyone had left him, and he was wearing a more relaxed mode of dress, a loose green tunic and britches, and no royal finery. He began immediately, with no beating about the bush.

"Legolas, I warned you about Mordurien, and I must say this frankly that she will be the death of you and of Arthon."

"I did not know Arthon loved her." I said, mechanically, lying for my love. "And I'll wager she did not know either."

It came to me in a flash that she must have known. It was so obvious in Arthon's moods and his actions that she must have guessed at his feelings, yet she had not chosen to stay away from me. This new insight into Mordurien gave me such a shock that my lips opened and closed automatically. Thranduil saw that and smiled kindly.

"You are very young, Legolas, though you may not believe it, and Arthon is still younger. Do not ruin his life, Legolas, or even kill him."

My tongue would not move in my mouth for a second, "What… what are you saying, father?"

"You must stop seeing Mordurien. Do it for the sake of your friend's life."

"He isn't my friend," I said, coolly.

Thranduil sighed. "Mordurien has already broken you two apart, she is killing Arthon and ruining your life. She knows she does these things, but does not cease seeing you! This action is unsuitable, cruel… even impolite."

"But! Father! I love her! I live only to see her again, and…" I paused. "I want to marry her."

Thranduil stared at me for a long time. The little-boy image, whatever remained of that fractured idol was gone, and his face hardened.

"You, as a Prince of Mirkwood," he began calmly, "shall need my permission to marry. I **refuse** you permission to marry this…" he paused, fighting with his emotions and the memory of the lean, miserable face of Arthon as he told his story unemotionally, "**slut**. That's the only word I can use to describe her."

When I look back, I see how right he was, how well-judged Mordurien was, and the way I spurned that brings tears to my eyes as I remember it.

"You know nothing of love." I said; if I was cold before, I was absolute zero now, "You couldn't even keep your wife with you."

He winced at the blow, and his father darkened, "My wife, and your mother, Legolas, was killed by Orcs on the borders of Mirkwood."

"What was she doing there?" I asked him scornfully. He was silent. "I can't stay to hear more of this drivel. How dare you worry yourself about my loves, when you can't sort out your own problems! Get you gone! I shall not stay here no more!"

"Celebros will miss you," he said, quietly as I turned for the door. "Isn't it his birthday feast the next night? Your absence, and he your brother, would kill him as surely as you stuck a knife into his heart."

I stopped and turned to eye him contemptuously, "Very well. I shall bid farewell to my brothers. But the day after tomorrow, I shall be gone with Mordurien, and you shall never hear of me more."

"So be it!" he said, venomously, and I left his presence, still shaking from the horror of my hate.


End file.
